


Running in Circles

by theweightofmywords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Married Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweightofmywords/pseuds/theweightofmywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Hermione and Ron get stuck in the routine of life? What happens to their love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing but this work. Title taken from Coldplay song, "The Scientist." Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

I was 13 when I learned about pi. I may not have been attending muggle school, but I still wanted to keep up with my peers in case I was deemed unfit for the wizarding world. In my nightmares, it was always a stern ministry official, coldly proclaiming, You do not belong in this world, Hermione Granger! Your wand, please. The anti-muggle sentiment in the wizarding world had shaken me more than I let on.

While perusing textbooks in the muggle library while home on summer break, I learned that pi neither ends nor settles into a permanent repeating pattern. Mathematicians consider it to be a constant. They call it transcendental. I reveled in its ubiquity: suddenly, I saw circles everywhere.

I was 13 when I also learned the pangs of love. And suddenly, all I saw was Ron.

His Devonshire accent rising above the rest of the voices in the dining hall. The whiff of his hair in the courtyard on the way to class. The feel of his clumsy hands when he passed me his parchment, an essay to look over. The red of the common room fire. And all I could think of was Ron.

Now that we've been married for ten years, after having dated for four, I have become accustomed to him. I wake up to his snores, his body giving off heat, making me irritable and sweaty in the night. His shoes in the foyer that I trip over when I come home exhausted from work. His belches after eating that make me want to roll my eyes. His empty liquor bottles. His "cool dad" routine that always undermined my attempts to use consistent rules with the children. He is everywhere, and I cannot escape him. His ubiquity consumes me, and it is breaking my heart.

"Ron? I'm going out!" I yell, pulling on my shoes. I don't bother to wait for a response. Our kids are at the Burrow. They adore their grandparents. They love hearing their grandfather explain old muggle objects to them and helping their grandmother around the house. They don't mind having our children there. "It keeps us young!" Arthur had said to us once.

I disapparate to muggle London. I walk to the nearest park bench, and I pull out a cigarette. I started smoking after Hugo was done nursing. Ron actually was the one to start me on them. Molly had offered to watch them for our anniversary night. Looking back, I can see that she was trying to do us a favor by nudging us back together, if only for a night. It was actually a great time; and after nearly a bottle of wine to myself at dinner, I was more than tipsy.

"Ron Weasley! Are you smoking?" I had shrieked. We were standing outside of some nightclub. It was my idea to go dancing after dinner.

Ron froze on the spot. "Right. Hermione, look, I only do it when—"

Before he could say any more, I had plucked it from his fingers and begun smoking.

"Hermione!" His voice had been filled with the same reverence as when I had slapped Malfoy back in our third year. We made love for the first time in months that night.

Now, I smoke maybe two, three times a week. And always in secret. I don't know when or why I started keeping secrets from Ron. I don't know when we became this way. Maybe it was when we had children. We love them, yes. But it's almost as if we lost who we are, swept up in the daily role of parenthood. But instead of being partners, we have become co-workers of sorts. Bitter. Competitive. I rub my eyes and light another cigarette.

I walk around muggle London for another hour. I stop into a bar to absentmindedly drink whiskey for a bit. The whiskey thing started when I began my little excursions. I suppose I felt like I was doing something elicit, and my usual glass of merlot or butterbeer didn't fit the mood. I swallow the whiskey down, thinking of Ron's increasing drinking. I remember Rose's last birthday party.

"Ron, can you help me set the food out?" I had asked, calling out for him over my shoulder as I tried to brush my daughter's red curly hair. Ron hadn't answered.

"Brush your hair, sweetheart," I had instructed my daughter, as I ventured downstairs to our kitchen. Ron had just set an empty glass on the countertop. Wiping his hand, he had said, dully, "What?"

"Ron! The food!" I had snapped, pointing from the food to the picnic table outside.

"Right. Right, yeah, I'll do it." He dismissively cracked open a bottle of butterbeer.

"Don't let it over-cook, yeah? Un-do the cooking charm in 15!" I had wondered if I should trust him with the responsibility, but I had had no choice. I still had to get my kids ready and dressed, and guests were set to arrive in less than an hour.

I feel my anger bubble up as I think about the remainder of that day. After 45 minutes, I had found Ron sleeping on the sofa. Ron had forgotten to watch the food, and it had burnt. Luckily, Molly had thought to bring sandwiches, and Ginny had baked a cake. Nobody quite knew how to handle Ron's drunkenness. Sure, it wasn't anyone's first time seeing Ron drunk, but on our daughter's 5th birthday! It had hurt the worst when I realized how fake my happiness was that day. Who are you, and what have you done with my Ron?, I had thought.

"I'll have another one!" I say to the bartender, sliding my empty glass over. If he can do it, then so can I! I think bitterly. After I down it, I pay and go. As if on instinct, I make sure to buy some groceries to justify my absence before heading home. I don't know when I became good at lying to him.

I find Ron sitting at the kitchen table. He's smoking a cigarette. I drop the bags on the countertop. "Really, Ron. In the house."

"Hermione…" he mumbles, looking down at his drink. Whiskey.

"And you're drinking too! I didn't know you were planning to have a party today! At 1 in the afternoon, no less!" My hypocrisy astounds me, but I continue.

"Hermione…"

"Were you going to invite me, at least?"

He is silent as I stand in front of him, my hands on my hips. He looks so sad, and I can't tell if I want to cry or scream at him. And I don't know why I would want to do either; just that I do.

"Are you happy with me, Hermione?" he whispers, his gaze set on a smudge on the table. I see his mouth set into a straight line, and I know he is trying not to cry.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course, I am, Ron, what are you talking—" I attempt.

"Please. Tell the truth," he says, looking up at me. He is crying now, and I am at a loss for words. I walk over to hold him, and any words I try to say are stopped in my throat. I hate making him cry. I hate hurting him. I realize, with a searing ache in my chest, how easy it has become to hurt him, and I hate myself for it.

We have both become so good at hurting each other. Who are we?, I think, as I hold him numbly, my mind flashing back to a particularly bad night a few months ago.

"Will you quit nagging me, Hermione?" Ron had brushed me off. We were in our bedroom. I had just put the kids to bed and had planned on talking to him about the dirty clothes he left on the bathroom floor, only to find him asleep by the time I entered the room.

I had retaliated. "Well, maybe if you weren't such a dolt, I wouldn't have to repeat myself!"

Ron had sat up then, his eyes darkened. " Oh, so now I'm a dolt. All that talk of 'Believe in yourself, Ron,' 'You're so smart, Ron,' what's that about?"

"Oh, please, it's not about that!" I had rolled my eyes at him.

"What is it about, then? What is so fucking important that you had to stomp in here and wake me up to yell at me?"

"I don't know! I don't know!" I had realized a bit too late that I was shouting, my hands pulling at my hair in frustration.

"If you don't know, then just leave me the fuck alone, Hermione," Ron had replied, rubbing his eyes wearily. That had stung. Tears sprang to my eyes. It felt like first and sixth year all over again, and my reaction had been equally childish. I had grabbed my pillow and left, slamming the bedroom door behind me.

Who are we? My head is pounding, and I close my eyes as I pull him closer.

"You smell like cigarettes. And whiskey," he says, plaintively. I look up at the ceiling in shame as I feel him let go of me.

"I was an auror for two years, Hermione. I know you're not just going out for groceries." His voice is a bit colder now, and I think to myself, No, Ron, stay. Stay here with me. "Look," he says, running a hand through his hair. It falls down over his eyes anyway, and I start to reach out to brush it out of the way. He sits up, and he is out of reach.

"We haven't been happy for a while now. And I want to be the one to make you happy. And I want you to want that. But you don't, do you?"

I suddenly feel weak, and I grab the edge of the table.

"I think…"

No. No. You can't. Don't say it.

"I think we should take a break."

He says it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "Just for a little," he continues. I find myself marveling at his composure during such a difficult moment. 'I was an auror for two years…' his voice echoes in my mind. "The kids," his voice cracks at the mention of them, "The kids can stay with me, if you'd like. At George and Angelina's. Or if you'd rather have them here, I mean, whatever you think is best."

I feel my head nodding and then shaking, as if to say, "Yes. No." I don't know what to say, so my head's movements aren't entirely inappropriate. I open my mouth to speak, but there is so much I want to say. There is so much, and so nothing comes out. I sit down.

"Hermione, please. Talk to me." His voice is quietly pleading, but I can barely hear him above the thoughts in my head. Say something, you stupid fool! You useless girl, say something! I am yelling at myself.

Ron stands up and walks towards the foyer. It is then that I notice a duffle bag. I notice the silence of the house, our children away, as Ron begins to put the bag on his shoulder. The bag bears the Chudley Cannons emblem, and I am reminded of his childhood bedroom, the first time we made love, waking up to see the rising sun reflect in his eyelashes as he slept. When he woke up, he had grinned at me lazily. "Hermione…" he had said tenderly, his eyes half open. And I remember just how much I love this man, and I turn my head to look at him.

He stands in the doorway to the foyer and stares at me. He is waiting for me to say something. And I remember how patiently he waited for me to forgive him during the war, after he returned to us. I remember the cups of tea he had made me that I foolishly left to go cold in spite. I remember his hands gently brushing my hair off my face in Shell Cottage when I was too weak to move. "It's alright, Hermione, I'm here," he had whispered. I remember the love in his eyes after I gave birth to Rose and Hugo, the way he cried when he held our children for the first time. I feel a sort of pain coursing through my chest right now, and all I can think is that this is a whole new type of crucio.

I see his shoulders sag, and he begins to walk towards the door. I open my mouth to say something, and still, silence meets me. He opens the door, but before leaving, he turns to look at me.

"I love you. Still. Always." His voice is shaky as he says these words. I know without looking at him that he is weeping. The door closes as I remain rooted in the chair. Count on me to be lost in my mind during a time like this.


	2. Chapter 2

Pi is a constant. It never ends or settles into a permanent repeating pattern. I had learned about pi the same year I fell in love with Ron Weasley. And so I had equated the two as equal. Ron was my pi, my never-ending constant. And just as pi is everywhere, I had thought of Ron as being everywhere, at all times. The silence of the house becomes deafeningly loud, and I am brought out of my head. And I realize, with a start, that Ron is gone.

Suddenly, I am standing. "Oh, shit, Hermione, what have you done?" I mutter, my hands on my head in shock.

And I am running out the door. I run through our yard, but he is not there. Without thinking, I disapparate to George and Angelina's flat.

"Ron!" I cry out, banging my fists on their door. No one is answering. "Ron!" I sob. I do not care if I am screaming in the middle of a busy street. "Ron!" I scream, my breath becoming shallow. I feel dizzy.

"Oh, shut up!" a woman yells from her second-story window. I find myself spinning on the spot, as I disapparate to Harry and Ginny's home. My finger is bleeding, and I realize that I splinched my thumb's fingernail in half. I run to their door as I continue to scream Ron's name. I am banging on their door. "Ron! Please!" I am begging. I barely notice blood from my thumb smearing on their door. Suddenly, the door opens.

"Hermione!" It is Harry. He grabs my hand. "What happened?"

"Ron," I repeat, my voice hoarse.

"Ron's not here. Has something happened?" He is trying to fix my nail with his wand, but I am moving too much. I hear our children playing in their backyard, and I begin to feel light-headed.

"I need Ron," I weep. I feel Harry's arms wrap around me.

"Okay. Okay, we'll find him," he says, gently. We sit down in his living room.

"He's not at George's. He's not here," I say, as the edges of my vision go black. I am having a panic attack, I think. I try to take deeper breaths and I put my head in my hands. I hear Ginny's voice soon after.

"Hermione?" she says gently, and I feel her rubbing my back. I turn my head to glance at her, and she looks so much like Ron at that moment.

"He left. He's gone. I don't know where. It's my fault. It's my fault!" I weep. I sink into her arms and continue to cry. I hear myself as if it is someone else speaking. "I lost him! I lost him! He's gone."

"Shh," Ginny hushes soothingly. I hear the sound of children running into the house. "Harry… the kids," she says quietly to her husband. A few moments later, I hear Harry asking the kids if they want to play quidditch with him. His tone is overly jolly.

"He's not gone, Hermione. He'll turn up," Ginny says firmly. She grips me at my shoulders and raises my chin with her hand. "C'mon. Let's go."

She floos her mother, who informs her that Ron is not there. She floos Bill and then George.

"Our neighbor said some madwoman was banging on our door. Was that you, Hermione?" George asks lightheartedly, his face in the fireplace.

I nod weakly. Seeing my face, George adds, in a more somber tone, "We'll keep an eye out for him, yeah?"

"I owled him. He knows you're looking for him." Harry sits next to me, smelling of sweat and dirt. It reminds me of summers at the Burrow with Ron. I look at Harry, and he shrugs apologetically as he puts an arm around me. "He'll come back. He always does," he says quietly. He looks sad as he says this. I realize that Harry probably saw this coming. He is still, after all, Ron's best mate.

I continue to sit at their table through the afternoon. I want to smoke a cigarette. They remind me of losing Ron, however, and I become acutely aware of their foul aftertaste in my mouth. My mouth feels charred. I occupy my time with reading a book but the words are jumbled. I re-read the same page for hours, circling back to the top once I reach the bottom. My head is spinning. I know I cannot apparate safely.

The children run in as the sun is setting, and I can see a flash of red hair running towards me. "Mum!" Rose yells. "Mum!" Hugo repeats, as he runs up to me. I am covered in their hugs, and I take a deep breath in, willing myself not to cry. "Oh, my babies!" I sigh, kissing the top of Rose's head. "Tell me all about your fun day at Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny's!" I let their excited talking drown out my thoughts. Dinner passes by, and I tuck my children into bed. Ginny had insisted they stay with them until I find Ron. I wonder if I should go to George and Angelina's, or return home. Harry, as if reading my thoughts, approaches me as I gather the plates from the table.

"Let me get those," he offers. "Go home."

"What if he comes here?" I whisper. I catch myself looking around, as if speaking about him will make him appear. It happened once. It might happen again, I think.

"Well then I'll just keep him occupied with quidditch talk, and I won't tell him at all about how you nearly kicked my door in looking for him," Harry says dryly. His gentle smile emerging a beat later almost makes me laugh. Count on Harry to be sassy at a time like this. I give him a weak smile.

"Have I lost him completely, Harry?" I ask, feeling that familiar ache in my chest. Harry sets the plates down.

"You know, he talks to me about you. Says that he doesn't know where it went wrong. He cries about you all the time, says that he misses you, that he's lost you," he says, smiling sadly.

"He still loves you. And you love him?" he asks me, more decisively. I nod. "Of course."

"Then go home. Find each other," Harry urges. He is sincere, and I notice his eyes look a tinge watery.

I pull him into a hug. My brother. My best friend. I feel a wave of affection and gratitude sweep over me. "I love you, Harry," I mumble into his shoulder. I hear him spit my hair out of his mouth. It must've gotten caught when we hugged.

"Don't get gross on me, Hermione," he warns, his green eyes rolling in response. This time, I laugh. I grab some floo powder and walk towards his fireplace. Right before I throw it in, I hear him mutter, "I love you too, Hermione."

I emerge from our fireplace. The house is dark, but I hear footsteps approaching. I flick the lights on with my wand and find myself face to face with Ron.

His eyes are puffy and red, and his face is splotchy, but I don't think he has ever been more handsome than at this moment. We stand frozen for what seems like hours. But then, I rush forward, throwing my arms around him. I feel myself go weak as his arms wrap around me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper over and over again. My eyes are closed, and I feel too ashamed to look into his. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." His shirt is wet with my tears, and I am faintly aware that my whispers have become louder with my sobs.

I feel his hand under my chin, guiding my face to look up at his. I feel his hand on my face, and it reminds me of how he caressed my face on our wedding night, and my eyes flutter open. He is looking at me as if he is trying to memorize my features.

"I don't want you to have to memorize me," I blurt out, grabbing his hand with a sense of urgency.

"I want you. I want you every day. I want you when I wake up, and when I come home, and when I go to sleep, and I want you in my dreams. I want you when you're old and your hair goes white, and I want you. Every day." I am blubbering, and Ron goes blurry in front of me as tears fill my eyes again.

"And I've been so stupid these past few years. I took you for granted. I've wasted these years. They're gone, and you're gone, and—"

But then, Ron's lips are on mine, and he is kissing me with the same sense of urgency as he did during the Battle of Hogwarts, and I let out a sob as I kiss him back, because I have missed this man. I have missed us.

"I'm not gone, you silly girl," Ron whispers, holding my face as he nudges my nose with his. "There's nothing else for me. I walked around the city today, thinking I'd feel better without you, but that's a lie, isn't it? I'm never better without you," he tells me, and I cry a little harder thinking about Ron wandering around London alone with his Cannons bag.

"I left you once. I never wanna leave you again. I haven't done much to deserve you lately," he mumbles. "Will you have me back again?" he asks. I look into his eyes, so blue and earnest. I find myself weeping now as the ache in my chest is replaced with joy. "Ron Weasley. I can't have it any other way," I confess. I run my hand over his face, as if to make sure he is real.

"But you gotta promise me, Hermione," he cries, covering my hand with his,"You gotta promise that you'll stay. Don't drift away, love." I nod my head, my hand coming up to touch his face. "I won't, Ron, I promise," I reply, and I know I mean it with every fiber of my being.

"We might break apart again, but we gotta find our way back to each other," he whispers, wiping my tears with his thumbs.

"We'll always find a way," I murmur. He meets my lips once more, and we stumble out the kitchen.

That night, I find myself awake in bed, Ron's arm draped over my stomach, his face buried in my neck. I kiss the top of his head gently, and I trace the freckles on his arm with my finger. I start counting the freckles, realizing that I'd need more time to count them all. With a jump in my heart, I realize that I have the time. I had almost lost it, but it has been given back to me once more, this perfect circle, ceaselessly spinning, our numbers reaching towards infinity.


End file.
